Pride

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Educated (2018)

  school, I’d been taught that all history was a preparation for Mormonism: that every event since the death of Christ had been fashioned by God to make possible the moment when Joseph Smith would kneel in the Sacred Grove and God would restore the one true church. Wars, migrations, natural disasters—these were mere preludes to the Mormon story. On the other hand, secular histories tended to overlook spiritual movements like Mormonism altogether. My dissertation gave a different shape to history, one that was neither Mormon nor anti-Mormon, neither spiritual nor profane. It didn’t treat Mormonism as the objective of human history, but neither did it discount the contribution Mormonism had made in grappling with the questions of the age. Instead, it treated the Mormon ideology as a chapter in the larger human story. In my account, history did not set Mormons apart from the rest of the human family; it bound them to it. I sent Dr. Runciman the draft, and a few days later we met in his office. He sat across from me and, with a look of astonishment, said it was good. “Some parts of it are very good,” he said. He was smiling now. “I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t earn a doctorate.” As I walked home carrying the heavy manuscript, I remembered attending one of Dr. Kerry’s lectures, which he had begun by writing, “Who writes history?” on the blackboard. I remembered how strange the question had seemed to me then. My idea of a historian was not human; it was of someone like my father, more prophet than man, whose visions of the past, like those of the future, could not be questioned, or even augmented. Now, as I passed through King’s College, in the shadow of the enormous chapel, my old diffidence seemed almost funny. Who writes history? I thought. I do. — ON MY TWENTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY, the birthday I had chosen, I submitted my PhD dissertation. The defense took place in December, in a small, simply furnished room. I passed and returned to London, where Drew had a job and we’d rented a flat. In January, nearly ten years to the day since I’d set foot in my first classroom at BYU, I received confirmation from the University of Cambridge: I was Dr. Westover. I had built a new life, and it was a happy one, but I felt a sense of loss that went beyond family. I had lost Buck’s Peak, not by leaving but by leaving silently. I had retreated, fled across an ocean and allowed my father to tell my story for me, to define me to everyone I had ever known. I had conceded too much ground—not just the mountain, but the entire province of our shared history. It was time to go home.

• From H Is for Hawk (2014)

  ‘Bennet is the name, initials E. A.,’ wrote White to Leonard Potts, his old tutor at Cambridge, who was something of a father figure. ‘He is a very great man – must be, because cured cases like mine are I believe most rare, if not unique.’ And then there’s an assurance that is surely his wishful invention of some future self: ‘I had a friend who was a sadistic homosexual, now happily married with children.’ For the last year, White’s craze for analysis had been in full spate: he was certain that Bennet would cure him of all of it: his homosexuality, his unhappiness, his sense of feeling unreal, his sadism, all of it; all his confusions and fears. It was all going well. He was almost sure he was in love with the barmaid. ‘I’m so happy I hop about like a wagtail in the streets,’ he told Potts, with a pride that holds within it, cupped like a small bird in the hand, his abject terror of failure. The boys treated him with a kind of holy awe. Pacing the long corridors in grey flannels, a turtleneck sweater and gown, Mr White looked a little like Byron. He was tall, with full lips and very pale blue eyes, a trim red moustache, and dark, unruly hair. He did all the right things: flew aeroplanes, shot, fished for salmon, hunted; and even better, all the wrong things: kept grass snakes in his room, rode his horse up the school steps on match days, and best of all, published racy novels under the pseudonym James Aston. When the headmaster found out he was furious: Mr White had to write him a letter promising never to write such filth again, said the boys, who passed copies of the novels around in agonies of delighted subterfuge. He was a startling, light-hearted, sarcastic figure But a forbidding teacher. He never beat boys, ever, but they were terrified of his disdain. He demanded emotional sincerity. If it wasn’t forthcoming, he’d cut his pupils down to size, puncturing their new-grown armour of pretension with a relish that bordered on cruelty. Even so there was something about Mr White that made him an ally of sorts; boys confided in him in a crisis, and they worshipped him for his insubordination and glamour. They knew he didn’t fit, not quite, with the rest of the masters at Stowe. Did you hear about the time he crashed his Bentley into a farmhouse and nearly died? they whispered. And they spoke gleefully of the legendary Monday morning when Mr White arrived late and hungover, ordered the class to write an essay on the dangers of the demon drink, put his feet on his desk, and fell fast asleep.

• From H Is for Hawk (2014)

  He had tried so hard not to be a coward. It was why he had hunted with the Grafton and learned to fly, and why he had swum around the St Leonards pier when he was small, and dived off the highest diving board at the Hastings Baths at school. He feels that old, sick horror. Powerless to remain erect. He must be brave. When he was small his mother had pleaded with him that he should ‘grow up a big brave and honourable man’ and it had conditioned him to fear the reverse. ‘I felt myself incapable of being any of these noble things’, he’d written. This was a test of manhood. Screwing his courage tight he calls Gos once more, from fifty yards this time, and this time he does not duck, even with terror flowing in all the courses of his veins. He is proud of the hawk for flying fifty yards, proud of himself for standing his ground. It is a victory worthy of celebration, and that night he drinks himself senseless. ‘I cry prosit loudly and repeatedly,’ he wrote, ‘quaff fiery liquids of triumph, drink damnation to my enemies, and smash the glasses on the floor.’ It is fifteen days since the hawk arrived. I’ve washed my hair, applied some make-up, found some presentable clothes – that is, ones not dusted with dried hawk-mutes – and walked with Mabel to my college for a summer lunch-party at the Master’s Lodge. At ten minutes past two I’m sitting at a long table on a secluded English lawn giving an impromptu lecture on falconry while Mabel tears at a rabbit leg in my hand. The Master of the college, a shrewd and genial man in an impeccably tailored suit, is listening intently to my speech. Next to him is his mother, looking distinctly amused. Her grandchildren sit by her. And next to them, the Master’s wife, an elegant dark-haired lawyer, holding a glass of wine. She catches my eye and grins. Two days ago on the way to the supermarket I’d heard her shout my name and turned to see her dismount from her bicycle with practised equestrian grace. We’d talked for a while under tattered leaf shadows, and soon I was in the kitchen of the Master’s Lodge drinking tea. ‘So, Helen,’ she said, ‘we’re having a lunch party on Saturday. Just family. In the garden, if the weather’s fine. What would be marvellous,’ she said, head tilted, ‘would be if you came along afterwards and brought your hawk. We’ve heard you’re flying her on the college grounds, and we’d love to meet her.’ She uncapped a black marker pen, wrote HELEN GOSHAWK on a whiteboard, then hesitated, turned to me. ‘Two p.m.?’ ‘Two p.m.’ She wrote the time in her elegant hand and smiled.

• From Educated (2018)

  Construction began on the milking barn in Oneida. Shawn designed and welded the main frame—the massive beams that formed the skeleton of the building. They were too heavy for the loader; only a crane could lift them. It was a delicate procedure, requiring the welders to balance on opposite ends of a beam while it was lowered onto columns, then welded in place. Shawn surprised everyone when he announced that he wanted me to operate the crane. “Tara can’t drive the crane,” Dad said. “It’ll take half the morning to teach her the controls, and she still won’t know what the hell she’s doing.” “But she’ll be careful,” Shawn said, “and I’m done falling off shit.” An hour later I was in the man box, and Shawn and Luke were standing on either end of a beam, twenty feet in the air. I brushed the lever lightly, listening as the hydraulic cylinders hissed softly to protract. “Hold!” Shawn shouted when the beam was in place, then they nodded their helmets down and began to weld. My operating the crane was one of a hundred disputes between Dad and Shawn that Shawn won that summer. Most were not resolved so peacefully. They argued nearly every day—about a flaw in the schematics or a tool that had been left at home. Dad seemed eager to fight, to prove

• From Educated (2018)

  touch them. Angie helped me into each one, knotting the sashes, fastening the buttons, plumping the bows. “You should take this one,” she said, passing me a navy dress with white braided cords arranged across the bodice. “Grandma sewed this detailing.” I took the dress, along with another made of red velvet collared with white lace, and Mother and I drove home. The play opened a week later. Dad was in the front row. When the performance ended, he marched right to the box office and bought tickets for the next night. It was all he talked about that Sunday in church. Not doctors, or the Illuminati, or Y2K. Just the play over in town, where his youngest daughter was singing the lead. Dad didn’t stop me from auditioning for the next play, or the one after that, even though he worried about me spending so much time away from home. “There’s no telling what kind of cavorting takes place in that theater,” he said. “It’s probably a den of adulterers and fornicators.” When the director of the next play got divorced, it confirmed Dad’s suspicions. He said he hadn’t kept me out of the public school for all these years just to see me corrupted on a stage. Then he drove me to the rehearsal. Nearly every night he said he was going to put a stop to my going, that one evening he’d just show up at Worm Creek and haul me home. But each time a play opened he was there, in the front row. Sometimes he played the part of an agent or manager, correcting my technique or suggesting songs for my repertoire, even advising me about my health. That winter I caught a procession of sore throats and couldn’t sing, and one night Dad called me to him and pried my mouth open to look at my tonsils. “They’re swollen, all right,” he said. “Big as apricots.” When Mother couldn’t get the swelling down with echinacea and calendula, Dad suggested his own remedy. “People don’t know it, but the sun is the most powerful medicine we have. That’s why people don’t get sore throats in summer.” He nodded, as if approving of his own logic, then said, “If I had tonsils like yours, I’d go outside every morning and stand in the sun with my mouth open—let those rays seep in for a half hour or so. They’ll shrink in no time.” He called it a treatment. I did it for a month. It was uncomfortable, standing with my jaw dropped and my head

• From H Is for Hawk (2014)

  It’s not a happy face, but it’s not unhappy either. Tense, certainly. It is fierce, ambivalent and brave. Today she’d come out to watch the hawk fly and in a burst of inspiration I decided to recruit her as my under-falconer. She’d borne my grief-spurred strangenesses with great good grace over the last few months but nothing could have prepared her for this. ‘The problem is, I can’t get away fast enough,’ I tell her. ‘She flies after me as soon as I start walking away. But she has to come longer distances before I can fly her loose. Can you hold her for me, out on the pitch, so I can call her from your fist?’ ‘You’ll have to show me how,’ she says, paling. ‘It’s easy, really.’ I give her my spare glove, put the hawk on it and bend her fingers into the right shape to hold the jesses. ‘Turn your back to me – yes, like that. Perfect. Now she can’t see me. So I’m going to walk over there. When I shout OK, turn right, stick out your arm and open your hand, so she can fly.’ She bites her lip, nods. ‘Make sure you turn the right way; you don’t want to get the creance caught round your legs.’ She holds the hawk with cautious concentration, as if it were a pitcher full of some caustic agent. She stands straight-backed, still and composed, a small figure fifteen yards away in skinny black jeans, T-shirt and bright red sneakers. ‘OK!’ She turns, and Mabel bursts towards me, dragging the creance behind her, flying so low her wing-tips almost brush the turf. With each deep wingbeat her body flexes and swings but her eyes and head are perfectly, gyroscopically, still, fixed and focused on my glove. The silvered undersides of her wings flash as she spreads them wide, her tail flares, she brings her feet up to strike and she hits the glove feet-first like a kickboxer. ‘Was that OK?’ shouts Christina. I give her a thumbs-up, and she responds the same way: for a moment we are two traffic controllers on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. We do it again. And again. The next day brings heavy rain so we fly her loose between us in the front room of my house, back and forth from fist to fist, over the rug, past the mirror, under the light, wings sending up draughts that leave the lampshade swinging wildly. By the fourth day the hawk is flying twenty-five yards to me, will come without hesitation from the ground, from Christina’s fist, from tree branches, from the roof of the pavilion. ‘Thank you so much for your help,’ I tell her as we walk from the field. ‘You know, I think we’re nearly there. Once she flies a full fifty yards I’ll let her loose.’

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Calvin was thus brought into direct conflict with the Council, and forced to the alternative of submission or disobedience; in the latter case he ran the risk of a second and final expulsion. But he was not the man to yield in such a crisis. He resolved to oppose to the Council his inflexible non possumus. On the Sunday which followed the absolution of Berthelier, the September communion was to be celebrated. Calvin preached as usual in St. Peter’s, and declared at the close of the sermon that he would never profane the sacrament by administering it to an excommunicated person. Then raising his voice and lifting up his hands, he exclaimed in the words of St. Chrysostom: "I will lay down my life ere these hands shall reach forth the sacred things of God to those who have been branded as his despisers." This was another moment of sublime Christian heroism. Perrin, who had some decent feeling of respect for religion and for Calvin’s character, was so much impressed by this solemn warning that he secretly gave orders to Berthelier not to approach the communion table. The communion was celebrated, as Beza reports, "in profound silence, and under a solemn awe, as if the Deity himself had been visibly present among them."770 In the afternoon, Calvin, as for the last time, preached on Paul’s farewell address to the Ephesian Elders (Acts 20:31); he exhorted the congregation to abide in the doctrine of Christ, and declared his willingness to serve the Church and each of its members, but added in conclusion: "Such is the state of things here that this may be my last sermon to you; for they who are in power would force me to do what God does not permit. I must, therefore, dearly beloved, like Paul, commend you to God, and to the Word of his grace."771 These words made a deep impression even upon his worst foes. The next day Calvin, with his colleagues and the Presbytery, demanded of the Council to grant them an audience before the people, as a law was attacked which had been sanctioned by the General Assembly. The Council refused the request, but resolved to suspend the decree by which the power of excommunication was declared to belong to the Council. In the midst of this agitation the trial of Servetus was going on, and was brought to a close by his death at the stake, Oct. 27. A few days afterwards (Nov. 3), Berthelier renewed his request to be admitted to the Lord’s Table—he who despised religion. The Council which had condemned the heretic, was not quite willing to obey Calvin as a legislator, and wished to retain the power of excommunication in their own hands. Yet, in order to avoid a rupture with the ministers, who would not yield to any compromise, the Council resolved to solicit the opinions of four Swiss cantons on the subject.772

• From The Four Vision Quests of Jesus (2015)

  Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide Show respect to all people and when it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home. 6 The Native Covenant taught people that this life was only part of the journey of reciprocity, that the garden continued on the other side not only for the tribe of the human beings but for all of creation. Consequently, more than once, Native people would startle Europeans with the calm dignity they exhibited as they faced death. In 1862 when the United States military carried out the largest mass execution in American history, hanging thirty-eight Dakota men at one time, these men went to their death singing. Why? Because they knew it was a good day to die.7 They had watched their women and children starving to death; they had heard the lament of their people under American occupation when food supplies were withheld and hunting made impossible; they had stood up like warriors and fought back against overwhelming odds, against death itself, and, in their eyes, they had won. Even though they died, they had overcome death because they died so others might live. The tradition of the “good day to die” is part of the Native Covenant. In Gethsemane, Jesus, like the Dakota warriors of 1862, realized it was his day to die so others might live. The vision of the cup was a singular vision. Only Jesus could drink from it because only Jesus, as the Native Messiah, could do what must be done to fulfill the original blessing of the Garden. For life to flourish, for justice to be possible, for healing to occur, for all of the things every human being who ever had lived or ever would live would ever need: Jesus would have to have the courage to step alone into the dance ground and raise his lament even “to the point of death.” The third vision quest, therefore, is not about a blood sacrifice to atone for sin. That interpretation of the vision can be argued from the Hebrew Covenant and Native American Christians are certainly free to embrace it if they choose to do so. However, from the view of the Native Covenant no such interpretation is required to understand the vision quest in the Garden. Jesus was not told by God that he must kill himself because human beings sinned through disobedience at some mythical point in the beginning of creation. From the Native experience of both God and life, that interpretation seems irrational, perhaps even barbaric. More logical from the Native Covenant view is the idea that humans began life in a Garden and to a Garden they seek to return.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Such is a summary of that remarkable Answer—a masterpiece of dignified and gentlemanly theological controversy. There is scarcely a parallel to it in the literature of that age, which teems with uncharitable abuse and coarse invective. Melanchthon might have equalled it in courtesy and good taste, but not in adroitness and force. No wonder that the old lion of Wittenberg was delighted with this triumphant vindication of the evangelical Reformation by a young Frenchman, who was to carry on the conflict which he himself had begun twenty years before by his Theses and his heroic stand at the Diet of Worms. "This answer," said Luther to Cruciger, who had met Calvin at the Colloquies in Worms and Regensburg, "has hand and foot, and I rejoice that God raises up men who will give the last blow to popery, and finish the war against Antichrist which I began."583 The Answer made a deep and lasting impression. It was widely circulated, with Sadolet’s Letter, in manuscript, printed in Latin, first at Strassburg, translated into French, and published in both languages by the Council of Geneva at the expense of the city (1540). The prelates who had met at Lyons lost courage; the papal party in Geneva gave up all hope of restoring the mass. Three years afterwards Cardinal Pierre de la Baume died—the last bishop of Geneva. § 92. Calvin’s Marriage and Home Life. Calvin’s Letters to Farel and Viret quoted below. Jules Bonnet: Idelette de Bure, femme de Calvin. In the "Bulletin de la Société de l’histoire du protestantisme français." Quatrième année. Paris, 1856. pp. 636–646.—D. Lenoir, ibid. 1860. p. 26. (A brief note.) Henry, I. 407 sqq.—Dyer, 99 sqq.—Stähelin, I. 272 sqq.—Merle d’Aubigné, bk. XI. ch. XVII, (vol. VI. 601–608).—Stricker, l.c. 42–50. (Kampschulte is silent on this topic.) The most important event in Calvin’s private life during his sojourn in Germany was his marriage, which took place early in August, 1540.584 He expresses his views on marriage in his comments on Ephesians 5:28–33. "It is a thing against nature," he remarks, "that any one should not love his wife, for God has ordained marriage in order that two may be made one person—a result which, certainly, no other alliance can bring about. When Moses says that a man shall leave father and mother and cleave unto his wife, he shows that a man ought to prefer marriage to every other union, as being the holiest of all. It reflects our union with Christ, who infuses his very life unto us; for we are flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone. This is a great mystery, the dignity of which cannot be expressed in words."

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  With that one brief visit to the Cavendish Club she had launched me on my new career as her permanent companion. Now came more excursions, more visits, more trips; and more suits for me to make them in. I grew complacent. I had once sat drooping on her parlour chair, expecting her to send me home with a sovereign. Now, when the ladies whispered of ‘this freak of Diana Lethaby’s’, I brushed the lint from the sleeve of my coat, drew my monogrammed hankie from my pocket, and smiled. When the autumn of 1892 became the winter, and then the spring of ’93, and still I kept my favoured place at Diana’s side, the ladies’ whispers faded. I became at last not Diana’s caprice; but simply, her boy. ‘Come to supper, Diana.’ ‘Come for breakfast, Diana.’ ‘Come at nine, Diana; and bring the boy.’ For it was always as a boy that I travelled with her now, even when we ventured into the public world, the ordinary world beyond the circle of Cavendish Sapphists, the world of shops and supper-rooms and drives in the park. To anyone who asked after me, she would boldly introduce me as ‘My ward, Neville King’; she had several requests for introductions, I believe, from ladies with eligible daughters. These she turned aside: ‘He’s an Anglo-Catholic, ma’am,’ she’d whisper, ‘and destined for the Church. This is his final Season, before taking Holy Orders ...’ It was with Diana that I returned to the theatre again - flinching to find her lead me to a box beside the foot-lights, flinching again as the chandeliers were dimmed. But they were terribly grand, the theatres she preferred. They were lit with electricity rather than gas; and the crowd sat hushed. I could not see the pleasure in it. The plays I liked well enough; but I would more often turn my gaze to the audience - and there was always plenty of eyes and glasses, of course, that were lifted from the stage and fastened on me. I saw several faces that I knew from my old renter days. One time I stood washing my hands in the lavatory of a theatre and felt a gent look me over - he didn’t know that he had had my lips on him already, in an alley off Jermyn Street; later I saw him in the audience, with his wife. One time, too, I saw Sweet Alice, the mary-anne who had been so kind to me in Leicester Square. He also sat in a box; and when he recognised me, he blew a kiss.

• From Generation Anxiety: A Millennial and Gen Z Guide to Staying Afloat in an Uncertain World (2023)

  The person receives support and shares how they are making different behavioral choices. It’s not just talking the talk—it’s walking the walk. A mix of emotions can occur during this time. It can be harder than they thought but they may also feel proud of themselves. It may be a constant battle within themselves but they’re in the fight. 5. Relapse: A natural part of the process, we should expect that the path to change will never be linear. The pros of the past behavior lured them back while they may be forgetting all the cons that came along with it. There is a lot of learning that happens during a relapse, and it doesn’t mean that progress is completely derailed. 6. Maintenance: After making the initial change, the person sustains their progress and integrates this new behavior. They have found alternative coping skills and they are motivated to continue on their new path. The pros of change now outweigh the pros of their past behavior. What’s helpful about knowing (generally) where someone sits in the Stages of Change Model is that it can inform how you have a conversation with the person. If we assume how ready someone is, many of us can misstep by jumping in with an action-oriented conversation when the person is actually in the precontemplation stage. Or we can jump to the worst-case scenario when someone relapses and assume they’re back to the precontemplation stage. In reality, it may just be a slipup and they have every intention of sustaining the change. That’s why motivational interviewing questions can be one of the most invaluable tools you use when you’re supporting friends and family. The idea is that you can ask nonaccusatory questions that help the person come to their own conclusions, rather than being forced into a choice that they’re not ready to make. After all, it’s one thing to make someone feel guilty for their behavior and then they change out of resentment. It’s another to help someone build their own innate desire for a different path. Here are some examples of questions that you can use when you’d like to support someone in making a change. Every time “behavior” is listed, replace it with the specific concern (substance use, depression, self-harm, etc.) that you are worried about. 1. How would you say your current behavior is impacting you? 2. How do you feel about the behavior? 3. How would you feel if your current behavior didn’t change? 4. On a scale from 1 to 10, how ready do you feel to make a change regarding your current behavior? 5. How do you think making this change would improve your life, if at all? 6. What do you see getting in the way of making this change? 7. If you’d like my support, how can I help you make this change? 8. If you decided to change, what would your next steps look like? 9.

• From A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (BDB) (1907)

  and :7£. °° gina‏ '%".מנ.ב כָּבוּר ד dance, honour, glory;—’3 Jos 7"+4 7ot.; 723‏ Gn 31! Na2™; estr. 123 Ex 16’+ 62 6; 7% a‏ Pr 25773. sf 133 /Gn 45h 4 1 %.; "733 Gn 49°‏ sfs.—1. 0 riches Gn31‏ ;35 + (J), Is 10° 61° 66? Naz” 407. 2. honour,‏ splendour, glory, of external condition and‏ circumstances: a. of men: of Joseph in Egypt‏ Gn 45" (E); of Job Jb 19° 29”; of Ephraim‏ Ho 9", Samaria Ho 10°; 1333) WY wealth and‏ splendour 1 Ch 298 2Chr7° 18) 327 Pr3l‏ ע' גם ב'=***י1 01 2 עשר DYD23(3)‏ )3 22% 8 Prri™; man was crowned‏ עשר || ;65 1K 0 Ec‏ at his creation, y 8°; the king is‏ כ' )177 with‏ ב ‘om Ti por. b. of thinks, wy‏ ב given‏ Est 5" splendour of his wealth, of a throne‏ 1S / (poem), Is 22% 16 147 17”; a kingdom‏ Est 1% chariots Is 228; priestly robes Ex 28"‏ (P); Lebanon Is 357 60”; forest Is 10% (fig. of‏ royal might); trees Ez 31"; temple Hg 2"%‏ restored holy land y 84” Is 4"*; Jerus. Is 62%‏ c. of God, glory, (1) in historic theophanies?‏ Nu 14” (JE);‏ אתת || to Moses Ex 33° (J);‏ for theophanies of‏ כ' יהוה P uses‏ .יה Dt‏ לו \ the Exodus Ex 167° 7 0 Lv qe Nu I 4 0‏ ee 2 Cho so‏ ב 0 01.2 20% ’2 65 צ Ezek., Ez - ane rot 5 7133 434° 44% with the‏ oN ‘2 Ez 8* 9° 10” 11” 439‏ יִשְרְאֶל variation‏ aud 11230 Ez 3°; the sacred tent was sanctified‏ by the Glory Ex 29% (P), and the temple was‏ y 26°; when the ark was captured,‏ מקום {DWN‏ ב' the Glory went into exile from Israel 1$ 42°‏ in historic and ideal manifestations to the‏ )2( pious mind Yahweh's name is a name of glory y‏ 72!° Neg’; his eyes eyes of glory Is 3°; im‏ | ל השמים the tn his glory is seen y 63°; it is‏ in SoH yy‏ "ל + על בל הארץ 113% ש 2. mass, abundance, of corps 3. vchemence, of war 18 21", of —_ he is 11333 by 29°; his glory is לְעוּלֶם‎ 14" it is great /ר‎ 138°; above all the earth ו‎ the whole earth is full of it Is 6°; the heavens are declaring אֶל‎ 23 W 19’; with reference to the divine reign הר 2 148 שי ,כ' הדר מַלְבוּתו‎ Wn 145°. (3) he is: 31230 abn ap 2.408910. \

• From Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance (1995)

  “You mean you didn’t get yourself a picture?” Will smiled cheerfully and held up a Polaroid shot, then put a hand on my shoulder. “You mind if I tell you something, Barack? You need to lighten up a little bit. What you call trifling was the most fun Angela and them have had all year. Ten years from now, they’ll still be bragging about it. It made ’em feel important. And you made it happen. So what if they forgot to invite Harold to a rally? We can always call him back.” I climbed into my car and rolled down the window. “Forget it, Will. I’m just frustrated.” “Yeah, I can see that. But you should be asking yourself why you so frustrated.” “Why do you think?” Will shrugged. “I think you’re just trying to do a good job. But I also think you ain’t never satisfied. You want everything to happen fast. Like you got something to prove out here.” “I’m not trying to prove anything, Will.” I started the car and began to pull away, but not fast enough to avoid hearing Will’s parting words. “You don’t have to prove nothing to us, Barack. We love you, man. Jesus loves you!” Almost a year had passed since my arrival in Chicago, and our labor had finally begun to bear fruit. Will’s and Mary’s street corner group had grown to fifty strong; they organized neighborhood cleanups, sponsored career days for area youth, won agreements from the alderman to improve sanitation services. Farther north, Mrs. Crenshaw and Mrs. Stevens had pressed the Park District into overhauling run-down parks and playlots; work there had already begun. Streets had been repaired, sewers rooted, crime-watch programs instituted. And now the new job intake center, where once only an empty storefront had been. As the organization’s stock had grown, so had my own. I began receiving invitations to sit on panels and conduct workshops; local politicians knew my name, even if they still couldn’t pronounce it. As far as our leadership was concerned, I could do little wrong. “You should have seen him when he first got here,” I’d overhear Shirley tell a new leader one day. “He was just a boy. I swear, you look at him now, you’d think he was a different person.” She spoke like a proud parent: I’d become a sort of surrogate prodigal son. The appreciation of those you worked with, concrete improvements in the neighborhood, things you could hang a price tag on. It should have been enough. And yet what Will had said was true. I wasn’t satisfied.

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  It has been argued that Aryan society was originally peaceful and did not resort to aggressive raiding until the end of the second millennium. 58 But other scholars note that weapons and warriors figure in the very earliest texts. 59 The mythical stories of the Aryan war gods— Indra in India, Verethragna in Persia, Hercules in Greece, and Thor in Scandinavia—follow a similar pattern, so this martial ideal must have developed in the steppes before the tribes went their different ways. It was based on the hero Trito, who conducts the very first cattle raid against the three-headed Serpent, one of the indigenous inhabitants of a land recently conquered by the Aryans. Serpent had the temerity to steal the Aryans’ cattle. Not only does Trito kill him and recover the livestock, but this raid becomes a cosmic battle that, like the death of the sacrificed king, restores the cosmic order. 60 Aryan religion, therefore, gave supreme sanction to what was essentially organized violence and theft. Every time they set out on a raid, warriors drank a ritual draft of the intoxicating liquor pressed from soma, a sacred plant that filled them with frenzied rapture, just as Trito did before pursuing Serpent; they thus felt at one with their hero. The Trito myth implied that all cattle, the measure of wealth in pastoral society, belonged to the Aryans and that other peoples had no right to these resources. The Trito story has been called “the imperialist’s myth par excellence” because it provided sacred justification for the Indo-European military campaigns in Europe and Asia. 61 The figure of Serpent presented those native peoples who dared to resist the Aryan onslaught as inhuman, misshapen monsters. But cattle and wealth were not the only prizes worth fighting for: like Gilgamesh, Aryans would always also seek honor, glory, prestige, and posthumous fame in battle. 62 People rarely go to war for one reason only; rather, they are driven by interlocking motivations—material, social, and ideological. In Homer’s Iliad, when the Trojan warrior Sarpedon urges his friend Glaukos to make a highly dangerous assault on the Greek camp, he quite unselfconsciously lists all the material perks of a heroic reputation—special seating, the best cuts of meat, booty, and “a great piece of land”—as an integral part of a warrior’s nobility. 63 It is significant that the English words value and valor both have a common Indo-European root, as do virtue and virility. But while Aryan religion glorified warfare, it also acknowledged that this violence was problematic. Any military campaign involves activities that would be abhorrent and unethical in civilian life. 64 In Aryan mythology, therefore, the war god is often called a “sinner” because a soldier is forced to act in a way that calls his integrity into question. The warrior always carries a taint. 65 Even Achilles, one of the greatest Aryan warriors, does not escape this stain.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Accordingly, after his triumphal entrance into Rome, he had his statue erected upon the forum with the labarum in his right hand, and the inscription beneath: "By this saving sign, the true token of bravery, I have delivered your city from the yoke of the tyrant."36 Three years afterwards the senate erected to him a triumphal arch of marble, which to this day, within sight of the sublime ruins of the pagan Colosseum, indicates at once the decay of ancient art, and the downfall of heathenism; as the neighboring arch of Titus commemorates the downfall of Judaism and the destruction of the temple. The inscription on this arch of Constantine, however, ascribes his victory over the hated tyrant, not only to his master mind, but indefinitely also to the impulse of Deity;37 by which a Christian would naturally understand the true God, while a heathen, like the orator Nazarius, in his eulogy on Constantine, might take it for the celestial guardian power of the "urbs aeterna." At all events the victory of Constantine over Maxentius was a military and political victory of Christianity over heathenism; the intellectual and moral victory having been already accomplished by the literature and life of the church in the preceding period. The emblem of ignominy and oppression38 became thenceforward the badge of honor and dominion, and was invested in the emperor’s view, according to the spirit of the church of his day, with a magic virtue.39 It now took the place of the eagle and other field-badges, under which the heathen Romans had conquered the world. It was stamped on the imperial coin, and on the standards, helmets, and shields of the soldiers. Above all military representations of the cross the original imperial labarum shone in the richest decorations of gold and gems; was intrusted to the truest and bravest fifty of the body guard; filled the Christians with the spirit of victory, and spread fear and terror among their enemies; until, under the weak successors of Theodosius II., it fell out of use, and was lodged as a venerable relic in the imperial palace at Constantinople. After this victory at Rome (which occurred October 27, 312), Constantine, in conjunction with his eastern colleague, Licinius, published in January, 313, from Milan, an edict of religious toleration, which goes a step beyond the edict of the still anti-Christian Galerius in 311, and grants, in the spirit of religious eclecticism, full freedom to all existing forms of worship, with special reference to the Christian.40 The edict of 313 not only recognized Christianity within existing limits, but allowed every subject of the Roman empire to choose whatever religion he preferred.41 At the same time the church buildings and property confiscated in the Diocletian persecution were ordered to be restored, and private property-owners to be indemnified from the imperial treasury.

• From Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance (1995)

  I decided to become part of that world, and began going down to a playground near my grandparents’ apartment after school. From her bedroom window, ten stories up, Toot would watch me on the court until well after dark as I threw the ball with two hands at first, then developed an awkward jump shot, a crossover dribble, absorbed in the same solitary moves hour after hour. By the time I reached high school, I was playing on Punahou’s teams, and could take my game to the university courts, where a handful of black men, mostly gym rats and has-beens, would teach me an attitude that didn’t just have to do with the sport. That respect came from what you did and not who your daddy was. That you could talk stuff to rattle an opponent, but that you should shut the hell up if you couldn’t back it up. That you didn’t let anyone sneak up behind you to see emotions—like hurt or fear—you didn’t want them to see. And something else, too, something nobody talked about: a way of being together when the game was tight and the sweat broke and the best players stopped worrying about their points and the worst players got swept up in the moment and the score only mattered because that’s how you sustained the trance. In the middle of which you might make a move or a pass that surprised even you, so that even the guy guarding you had to smile, as if to say, “Damn …” My wife will roll her eyes right about now. She grew up with a basketball star for a brother, and when she wants to wind either of us up she will insist that she’d rather see her son play the cello. She’s right, of course; I was living out a caricature of black male adolescence, itself a caricature of swaggering American manhood. Yet at a time when boys aren’t supposed to want to follow their fathers’ tired footsteps, when the imperatives of harvest or work in the factory aren’t supposed to dictate identity, so that how to live is bought off the rack or found in magazines, the principal difference between me and most of the man-boys around me—the surfers, the football players, the would-be rock-and-roll guitarists—resided in the limited number of options at my disposal. Each of us chose a costume, armor against uncertainty. At least on the basketball court I could find a community of sorts, with an inner life all its own. It was there that I would make my closest white friends, on turf where blackness couldn’t be a disadvantage. And it was there that I would meet Ray and the other blacks close to my age who had begun to trickle into the islands, teenagers whose confusion and anger would help shape my own.

• From H Is for Hawk (2014)

  It was too much. At two yards humanity became again the inherent coward, and cringed away to the right, averting face from the eyes of slaughter, humping shoulder, powerless to remain erect. But Gos bound to the shoulder with a decisive blow, stepped quickly down the arm, was feeding on two ounces of beef. He had tried so hard not to be a coward. It was why he had hunted with the Grafton and learned to fly, and why he had swum around the St Leonards pier when he was small, and dived off the highest diving board at the Hastings Baths at school. He feels that old, sick horror. Powerless to remain erect. He must be brave. When he was small his mother had pleaded with him that he should ‘grow up a big brave and honourable man’ and it had conditioned him to fear the reverse. ‘I felt myself incapable of being any of these noble things’, he’d written. This was a test of manhood. Screwing his courage tight he calls Gos once more, from fifty yards this time, and this time he does not duck, even with terror flowing in all the courses of his veins. He is proud of the hawk for flying fifty yards, proud of himself for standing his ground. It is a victory worthy of celebration, and that night he drinks himself senseless. ‘I cry prosit loudly and repeatedly,’ he wrote, ‘quaff fiery liquids of triumph, drink damnation to my enemies, and smash the glasses on the floor.’ It is fifteen days since the hawk arrived. I’ve washed my hair, applied some make-up, found some presentable clothes – that is, ones not dusted with dried hawk-mutes – and walked with Mabel to my college for a summer lunch-party at the Master’s Lodge. At ten minutes past two I’m sitting at a long table on a secluded English lawn giving an impromptu lecture on falconry while Mabel tears at a rabbit leg in my hand. The Master of the college, a shrewd and genial man in an impeccably tailored suit, is listening intently to my speech. Next to him is his mother, looking distinctly amused. Her grandchildren sit by her. And next to them, the Master’s wife, an elegant dark-haired lawyer, holding a glass of wine. She catches my eye and grins. Two days ago on the way to the supermarket I’d heard her shout my name and turned to see her dismount from her bicycle with practised equestrian grace. We’d talked for a while under tattered leaf shadows, and soon I was in the kitchen of the Master’s Lodge drinking tea. ‘So, Helen,’ she said, ‘we’re having a lunch party on Saturday. Just family.

• From Generation Anxiety: A Millennial and Gen Z Guide to Staying Afloat in an Uncertain World (2023)

  For years, her faith had blocked her from accepting whom she felt genuinely attracted to, and, as a result, she would date man after man whom she felt no connection with. We started exploring different identities, and over time, she owned who she was as a queer woman. Stepping into herself fully, there was no shame or fear any longer. She was proud. The Nikita who hung her head low had been replaced by a woman who held her head high. She started dating people— people who were actually of interest to her and not just because she thought she “should” be seeing them. Before long, she was smoking, drinking, and spending less because she was too busy enjoying meeting new people. We both felt the power in the room when she told me one day, “Lauren . . . I’m actually really happy.” It was undeniable—even to herself. It takes bravery to make a different choice like Nikita did—to own your story. It’s easier to stay home and tell ourselves it’s too hard. We begin to think we don’t deserve to hope for better. That’s where Nikita was when I first saw her. But eventually, that place of desperation leads us to wonder whether there can be a way out. We start to consider that our pain may actually provide us with the path forward. Making a change in our lives can be so freaking uncomfortable and scary that sometimes our anxiety has to reach a fever pitch before we care enough to try something else. So perhaps as you read this, you’re at your breaking point. You’re tired of the panic attacks that leave you shaking, sick, and exhausted. You’re worn-out by the endless worrying about your future, your finances, your body, your dating life, your job, your grades—your whatever. You’re fed up. I know it hurts. I’ve been there myself. But here’s the thing: you can be at your turning point. Right now. I’m not promising that some of the stressors in your life will go away, but I can help you get your brain back. And it’s all going to start with the choices you make. Staring at the news and lamenting at your screen isn’t going to cut it. If we want things to be different, we have to start showing up differently. I’ll say it again: it’s time to get our power back. Whether it’s starting to eat vegetarian to help protect our planet, intentionally spending time outside in greenery because of how it helps your mental health, or simply smiling at someone who is houseless rather than turning the other cheek, we’ve got to start reengaging. And I have to tell you, it’s not going to be comfortable or easy, but like many things in life, the good stuff rarely comes without some pain and sacrifice.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Further, amidst the great trinitarian and christological controversies of the Nicene and post-Nicene age, the popes maintained the powerful prestige of almost undeviating ecumenical orthodoxy and doctrinal stability;524 while the see of Constantinople, with its Grecian spirit of theological restlessness and disputation, was sullied with the Arian, the Nestorian, the Monophysite, and other heresies, and was in general, even in matters of faith, dependent on the changing humors of the court. Hence even contending parties in the East were accustomed to seek counsel and protection from the Roman chair, and oftentimes gave that see the coveted opportunity to put the weight of its decision into the scale. This occasional practice then formed a welcome basis for a theory of jurisdiction. The Roma locuta est assumed the character of a supreme and final judgment. Rome learned much and forgot nothing. She knew how to turn every circumstances with consummate administrative tact, to her own advantage. Finally, though the Greek church, down to the fourth ecumenical council, was unquestionably the main theatre of church history and the chief seat of theological learning, yet, according to the universal law of history, "Westward the star of empire takes its way," the Latin church, and consequently the Roman patriarchate, already had the future to itself. While the Eastern patriarchates were facilitating by internal quarrels and disorder the conquests of the false prophet, Rome was boldly and victoriously striking westward, and winning the barbarian tribes of Europe to the religion of the cross. § 58. The Latin Patriarch. These advantages of the patriarch of Rome over the patriarch of Constantinople are at the same time the leading causes of the rise of the papacy, which we must now more closely pursue. The papacy is undeniably the result of a long process of history. Centuries were employed in building it, and centuries have already been engaged upon its partial destruction. Lust of honor and of power, and even open fraud,525 have contributed to its development; for human nature lies hidden under episcopal robes, with its steadfast inclination to abuse the power intrusted to it; and the greater the power, the stronger is the temptation, and the worse the abuse. But behind and above these human impulses lay the needs of the church and the plans of Providence, and these are the proper basis for explaining the rise, as well as the subsequent decay, of the papal dominion over the countries and nations of Europe.

• From A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (BDB) (1907)

  ef. Aram. Dn 4¥ & %)—1. pride Jb 33” Je 13”. 2. lifting wp Th 22” an exclamation, wp/ Ew Di De al.; but pride Hi כ‎ ַא v.‏ בָּאיות gil אל‎ vb. redeem, act as kinsman (N H, Niph. be redeemed ; also Deis, mp3) 1 lige ’y, etc. 18 449% 14 t.; Impf. bass, etc. Lv 253+ 18t.; Imv. DNS, etc. Rug’+ 3t.; Inf. abs. ָּאל‎ Ly 2473+ at.; cstr. bie Ru 4'+2t.5 sf. 7832 Ru ה‎ Pt. bh Ly 257° + 24 t., dyin Is 597% 103°; sf. SPS Is 48”, ANA Ts 54° (sf. 19 t.); pass. pl. גָּאוּלִים‎ etc, Is 35°+4t.;—1. act as kinsman, do the part of newt of kin (chiefly in DH P Ru), Osh kinsman Lv 25” (H) Nu 5° 35% (P) Ru 2” 145 יגאל Bile A868 ie OS eee tate a, kingsman's widow אם יגאלך טוב ינאל ואם לא יחפיץ לגאלך‎ וגאלתיך‎ if he will do thee the kinsman’s part (raise up children by the widow) well, let him do the kinsman’s part; but if he is not pleased to do thee the kinsman’s part then I will do thee the kinsman’s part Ru 3%; b. in redeeming from bondage Ly 25° (H); ¢. in redeeming a field Ly 25°" (H) Ru 4**; 6. claim as kinsman Jb 3°; 6. O77 ON) the avenger of blood Nu 35°?" Jos 20°°(2; notin ®) v*(P). Dt 19°" (D) 2814". 8. redeem, by payment of value assessed, of consecrated things, by the original owner Ly 27%"51(P), | 3. redeem, with God as subj. implying personal relation- ship, chiefly in poetry:—a. individuals, from death y 103* La 3% Ho 13”, מכל רע‎ Gn 48" (HE poetry), YI y 69" 72", orphans Pr 23" Je 50%, אָלִי ,"119 ריבה ריבי וגאלני‎ 0 PSS צורי‎ ש‎ 197. b. Israel, from Egyptian bondage Ex 6°(P?) 15% (song) מיר אויב ,78° 777° 747 ש‎ W106". 0. from exile (chiefly 18% the vb. not in Is?) Is 43) 44725 48% 2763" Mi4™® מיד‎ 1077 Je 31"; Yahweh is באל‎ Is 41 43% 445 4474 487 407% ₪477 59” 60" 63%; and the people ְאוּלִים‎ Menon Gaur ele DIN infr.), סנ‎ Niph. Pf. cS) Ly 25%; Impf. אל‎ vee tant. NIN Is 52°;—-1. refl. redeem oneself Ly 25° (H). 2. pass. be redeemed, a. field Lv 25° (H), slave Lv 25" )11( ; b. con- secrated things Ly 2777/88 (P); 6. Jerusalem by Yahweh Is 52°. if גּאוּלי‎ Ts 634, in ג'‎ MY, n.abstr. re- demption, ace. to © © BY Ges Hi De MV Che Di RVm;; then either pl. abstr. sf. year of (my) redemption (so most); or abstr. form. in \—, after Syr. analogy, Lag Symm. 11. 101 f. Sem. 1. 19, 68. BN 192 (Gom. my); but > Pt. pass. pl. sf. mz ransomed (released) ones Ew Br Brd AV RV cf. sub supra.‏ גאל